


confidence in muscle and ambition

by kapbird



Category: Friends at the Table (Podcast)
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-18
Updated: 2017-08-18
Packaged: 2018-12-16 18:58:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11834976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kapbird/pseuds/kapbird
Summary: "They found each other in the wreckage of optimism, and it took them a decade to decide that hope was not enough to save the Golden Branch from itself."Sokrates Nikon Artemisios and the Divine Integrity, through the birth and the infancy of the Golden Branch Demarchy.





	confidence in muscle and ambition

**Author's Note:**

> here are some things i thought:  
> 1\. integrity's control over sokrates' body is really fucked up and interesting  
> 2\. i _really_ like invasive technology and cybernetics
> 
> now i have written four thousand words about those things. here they are; i have been working on them for a long time and i hope they are good.

One day, Ariadne will ask them if it had hurt to become the Candidate of Integrity.

“Oh, uh.” Sokrates will stop, unsure of how to answer. “Not really?” they will eventually lie. “I mean it wasn’t great but it was fine, like. I’m fine.”

Now, Sokrates can only whimper, curled on the ground, surrounded by the shelves and server banks of the library. Integrity isn’t letting them cry; it prefers to lose as little biomass as it can during the integration process.

Reinforcing skeletal structure. Threading muscle fibers. Overlaying central/peripheral nervous systems. Enhancing optic/auditory nerve fidelities. Augmenting internal organs. Installing microfusion array. Implanting armor plates. Clotting blood. Regenerating damaged capillaries. Repairing telomeres.

Integration complete.

Welcome aboard, Candidate Enhydra. We’ve got work to do.

*

Sokrates arrives on Torru in a small ship, and they bring as few people with them as they can get away with. The Ethnologistical Society is not by any means weak, but neither is it grand Minerva or the loyal Hands of Grace; Sokrates doesn’t like forcing the group into serious open conflict.

On the other hand, it is hard to see their generals waste young, patriotic soldiers on pointless, pointless violence, and Ariadne doesn’t like the idea of them going someplace alone.

“It’s just not safe,” Sokrates remembers them insisting. “Even with a Divine. The Rapid Evening can _kill_ Divines, haven’t you seen the reports about Grace? Haven’t you—”

An unsettling thing happens. Integrity highlights Ariadne’s hands at the same time that Sokrates notices they’re wringing them. 

Recommend—Integrity starts, and Sokrates cuts them off.

 _Quiet,_ they hiss at it, and it complies. 

Deferring to you, Candidate. Sokrates desperately wants to let the irritation show on their face, but they remain impassive. Anger at a presence only the Candidate can detect will not reassure Ariadne given...what hangs between them.

“Ariadne,” Sokrates says. “Ari.” They take the former engineer’s hands in their own, looking them dead in the eyes. Ariadne’s hands still, and their body shakes slightly instead, as if the stress has moved up through the arms and into their shoulders.

“Ari,” Sokrates repeats. “I’ll be okay, I promise.”

“That’s,” Ariadne whispers. “You can’t. You can’t promise that.”

“I can.” Sokrates maintains their gaze. “By Apole and Apotine, by Apoanta and Apote, by Apothesa and—well, not by Apokine, fuck the Apokine. But the other ones I swear by.”

Ariadne laughs through their tears, and Sokrates smiles back. “Besides,” they say, newly confident now that Ari isn’t quite so miserable. “I’m _Sokrates_. I already betrayed like, two countries.”

“Only two?” Ariadne wipes their eyes, looking up and smiling. The engineer rubs their thumbs across Sokrates’ own, and the new Candidate suppress the need to swallow.

“OriCon and the Diaspora only count for half each since I didn’t _actually_ betray them,” they say confidently. “That was just Ibex being a shithead. So, two.”

Ariadne laughs again. “Well,” they say. “Join the club.”

Sokrates had squeezed their hands again then, and they had looked up at the Candidate hopefully, and then—well. In the shuttle on the way to Torru, they swipe their hand over their lips, remembering.

It had been a very good kiss.

*

The violence on Torru is unsettling, and not because it is intense. Quite the opposite, in fact; it feels effortless.

Sokrates does not like violence, but they’re not a stranger to it; they’d served on Apostolosian bases under attack, they’d signed on with the small fleet meant to advance on Counterweight. They have seen terrible, terrible violence before.

What scares them is the notion that this is what it’s like for people like Addax, like Ibex—people like Sokrates—to inflict it.

The Rapid Evening base is littered with defenses; largely automated, but still dangerous. But as Sokrates dances through its strange white halls, cracking apart its golden constructs, all they can think is how—quiet it seems to be. Contemplative, almost. At one point, they find one of the few soldiers occupying the base, and in a single fluid advance they are behind him, hands around his neck, and it is so easy to kill him. Sokrates has never had that kind of strength in their life.

Candidate, Integrity suggests cautiously. A singular dead soldier presents us with an opportunity. We could—

 _Uh, no?_ Sokrates’ body doesn’t flinch as they continue their advance, but they nearly recoil over their connection with the Divine. _I’m not dragging a fucking corpse around this base with me so I can throw it at whatever soldiers are left here? Who do you think I am?_

Integrity’s response is immediate, a surge of relieved calm. Apologies, Candidate, it says all in a rush. Previous Candidates...required optimal demoralization. Questions of unnecessary brutality were not considered relevant.

And it takes a minute for Sokrates to understand, but when they do, they laugh at Integrity’s words. They have to.

“Eidolons, Integrity.” They know it can feel their smile behind their opaque carapace of a helmet. “What, Divines can be traumatized messes too?”

It responds with tentative feedback—something like a hesitant smile of its own. Perhaps. You are aware that you are the first Candidate I have trusted in over six centuries. There are reasons why.

Sokrates chuckles. “Is it like having a shitty ex? I bet it’s like having a shitty ex, my—partner? I dunno what we are, I guess we’re gonna have to figure that out, anyway, my partner or whatever had a shitty ex, and Apoanta, the stories Ari can tell…”

They’re babbling, the way they used to in the Seventh Sun or the Callisto or the Kingdom Come, they way they used to when they were a child and Euanthe would tell them to shut up and Cass would roll their eyes but listen patiently anyway. Sokrates thinks a lot about how much of that person they’ve left behind, how much of that self they’ve had to mask in order to take up leadership of the Ethnologistical Society, how much more they’ll have to hide to begin the Demarchy. Excepting perhaps Ariadne, nobody has seen this side of them in ten years, and Integrity only bears witness by virtue of being stitched into their flesh.

 _Integrity demands intimacy,_ Sokrates remembers being told. They think that maybe it makes sense that this strange and lonely machine, this construct which has been used as a far more terrible weapon, is so eager to have a trustworthy vector between its abstraction and Soktrates’ materiality.

Sokrates supposes that they have made stranger vows than not to betray a Divine.

*

Integrity is already building itself over their skin as the last Apokine Pelagios collapses forward onto their body.

“Argus,” they breathe, and out of the corner of their eye and through Integrity’s many sensors they can see Argus Korba stowing a handgun.

“Ki was going to kill you, Sokrates.”

“It wouldn’t have worked, Argus.” The armor is closing over their face—a kindness on Integrity’s part. “Just...fuck, ki was a shitty parent, I know. I know ki was bad. But.” They suck in a breath. “I hoped ki was above this?” They glance over at Argus. “Maybe that was naive of me.”

“People like your parent don’t give up power easily, Sokrates. Or kindly.” Argus’ face remains the same impassive mask it’s been for the past hour. Sokrates appreciates the honesty of the general’s disdain.

Sokrates sighs. They desperately want to open the mask, to run a hand through their hair, to massage their temples or rub at the dark circles they know must be under their eyes. But Integrity won’t allow it—won’t allow anything that could lower Argus’ morale, won’t let them damage the rapid, shaky trust they’ve built with the cautious general. And besides, Integrity offers, the image of your helmet folding away as you step out to address the marchers will—

 _Integrity,_ Sokrates says to it, _you may well be one of the best things to ever happen to me, but sometimes I really fucking hate you._

*

“They’re not going to Gemm.”

It is rare for Sokrates to speak to their Divine out loud. Integrity is etched into their very nerves. Vocalization is wholly unnecessary, but Sokrates has picked up a sense of drama from their synthetic symbiont.

Deploy your assets, Candidate. Ariadne is personable and hard-working; they can also read people exceptionally well. They make an obvious choice to—

“Ariadne isn’t a fucking _asset,_ Integrity,” Sokrates snaps. “I’m not sending them to Gemm. Fortitude aside, do you have any idea what the _police_ there are like?”

I have already contacted them to discuss mission parameters. They are approaching the office and will be here—

“Fuck you.”

—shortly.

The door slides open, and Ariadne is there, hair tied up in a messy ponytail, round glasses over olive-skinned face. Ariadne shrinks into themself often, desperate to appear small, and Sokrates often forgets that the engineer is actually a head taller than their own self.

“...hey,” Ariadne tries.

“Hey.” Sokrates sighs explosively, then winces as Ariadne’s face shifts. “I—sorry. I’m not mad at you.”

You can’t disbar Ariadne from taking risks, Candidate Enhydra, even if the idea upsets you.

“Shut—” Sokrates says, then stops, inhales. _Shut up._ “Sorry. Integrity is—we’re having a bad day.”

Ariadne nods slowly, entering the office more fully and moving to stand opposite Sokrates, opposite the small desk which occupies most of the room. “I guess I don’t have to explain, then.”

“No, you.” Sokrates stops and rubs at their eyes. Part of them wishes they could cry, but the tears aren’t coming—haven’t for months now, and it’s not even Integrity’s fault. “You shouldn’t go. It’s a bad idea.”

“Sokrates—”

“ _Please,_ Ariadne,” Sokrates begs, standing, bracing themself with shaking arms—why are their arms shaking?—against the synthetic, plastic-y wood of the desk. “I can’t—I _can’t_ —I don’t want to be alone—”

And suddenly Ariadne is around the desk and their arms are embracing Sokrates and the exhaustion hits them like a wave and they are shaking with their whole body now, as Ariadne holds them and strokes them, whispering soothingly and offering light kisses.

“It’s gonna be okay,” they’re saying when Sokrates can finally work up the energy to come back to the world beyond Ariadne’s touch. “I promise, Sokrates. I’ll be okay.”

“You can’t,” Sokrates whispers. “That’s not—you don’t know that.”

And Ariadne looks at them, and they smile a little smile in that soft way that Sokrates has seen so many times before, and Sokrates’ heart hurts in the way that feels like it’s going to beat out of their chest with love.

“Sokrates,” they say, kind, soft, but firm like they are laced with steel and nanocarbon, “I absolutely _promise_ that I’m going to be okay.”

“Okay,” Sokrates says, and lets out a deep, shuddering breath. “Okay. Okay.”

They stay like that a while longer, before Sokrates finally looks up at Ariadne.

“Thanks, Ari.” A weak smile, and Ariadne smiles back, slow but steady. “We can talk details tomorrow. I—you’ll do great. I promise not to fret too much?”

Ariadne laughs and kisses them. Sokrates could just about melt. “Thank you, love,” Ariadne says, pushing their glasses up the bridge of their nose. “I’ll see you later?”

Sokrates nods, and Ariadne takes their leave, smiling at them one last time before shutting the door to the office.

A moment passes. Then, as Sokrates sits down in their chair—

Candidate.

_Yeah?_

A reminder: you are never alone. I am always here with you.

Sokrates laughs joylessly. “Thanks, Integrity. I’ll keep that in mind.”

*

Shake his hand, Candidate Enhydra.

 _Fuck you,_ Sokrates snaps over the connection. _Fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you, let me hit him let me hit him he put Cass in danger, just let me—_

It _hurts,_ is the thing; they can feel Integrity spiking their nervous system, locking up their muscles, stopping them from slamming their fist into Ibex’s smug fucking face. Sokrates is not a violent soul; rarely have they ever wanted to inflict harm on somebody, but Ibex—but Ibex. Sometimes, in their weaker moments, they wonder if that’s a complete sentence.

“Your glasses look stupid,” they spit as Ibex turns to leave through the wormhole.

“It’s very bright,” Ibex says, and Sokrates vows right then and there that they will not leave this life without seeing Ibex die first.

The war table breaks as Sokrates slams their fist through it, and Apotine Korba starts at the crack of stone and circuitry.

“Apokine?” they hedge, and then, “Sokrates?”

“Apologies, Apotine,” Sokrates grits out. “Ibex...we have a history. It’s bad. This is an alliance of convenience, and that will remain true as long as Ibex holds the cards. When you reach out to our contacts on Counterweight, don’t forget that.”

Argus nods slowly. “How real is this Rigor threat? Is Ibex—the first Divine. It still exists?”

It’s real. Righteousness is many things, but it doesn’t make a habit of inventing threats of this magnitude.

_And Ibex?_

Dissembles more than he has ever outright lied. I don’t suggest we trust him in any meaningful way, but his fear is genuine.

The readouts lay themselves over Sokrates’ eyes; breath chemical analysis, blink rate, eye dilation, hormone levels. Ibex’s fear had been as real as Integrity had said.

“It’s real, Argus.”

Argus lets out a breath. Sokrates does too, but Integrity mutes it, quietly sucking the air away so that the Apotine can’t see the tension in their leader’s body. 

“Then.” Argus grips their rifle tighter. “Then...now what?”

“Mobilize our fleets.” Sokrates brings up a display out of the mostly-intact war table. “Move our forces to whatever borders we share with Petrichor. Contact the Netted Wave on Counterweight; I’ll go talk to the old barons, see what we can raise from those corners of the Demarchy.”

Argus eyes the display, leaning on their arms as they eye the map of the Golden Branch. Sokrates envies them their ability to look so openly exhausted.

“You would think,” Argus starts, before stopping. The Apotine reaches for words again, unable to quite find them but equally unable to keep from speaking. “How long has it been since our last war? Months?”

Sokrates snorts. “Well, maybe an existential threat will leave us with an uncomplicated war for the Apostolosian history books.”

Argus chuckles at that, then looks at the display again.

“This is going to go badly, isn’t it.”

Sokrates looks at Argus’ face and makes a decision. They reach, and Integrity answers, giving voice and shape and force to their intent.

“Rigor embodies everything we built the Demarchy to stand against,” they say, and Argus’ eyes flick up to them as though the Apokine can sense that more than just Sokrates is speaking. “We’re going to beat it. We have to.”

Argus casts them a wary look. “For the Demarchy?”

“No.” Sokrates’ voice is firm. “For Alethia and Milos and Ionna”—Integrity supplies the names, dossiers flickering into their vision—“and everyone else who deserved better on Torru.”

They see the emotion flicker across Argus’ face as it passes from surprised to mournful to resolute. The general nods, and Sokrates smiles, running a current of gratitude up the channel to their Divine.

They can do this. They have to.

*

And then, Apokine—the machine, not the title—and then, Rigor, and then, the September Incident, and then, Cassander, home.

And it is a pleasant few years. Sokrates surrenders the position of Apokine after their appointed year; it’s picked up by a young refugee leader, the kind of person whose ideas are maybe too big for office but who Sokrates is happy to see try to implement them. Their work loses a great deal of its politicization; Sokrates and Integrity have become logisticians, now, working with Ariadne and Cass to figure out how to best distribute the scattered resources of the Demarchy to its needy people.

They marry Ariadne on a golden summer day in a small park on Gemm, where Ariadne once said they had hidden from its old secret police and thought of Sokrates for courage. It is a small ceremony; Cass and Euanthe are there, as is Argus Korba, whose friendship and patience Sokrates has appreciated these long years. Ariadne has invited some friends from their time on Gemm, fellow rebels who helped them push back against Fortitude and the Diaspora. They are resplendent, hair down for once in a beautiful wedding gown, and Sokrates, wearing a simple sundress and tights and with their hair in a wavy updo, can only stare at their love, eyes shining.

And then there is the kiss, and Sokrates does their damndest to press every ounce of affection and gratitude and joy into it as they can, every promise and every oath to love this humble, gentle engineer turned political rebel as long as they possibly can.

And Eidolons, the way Ariadne looks at them as they pull away shakes Sokrates to their very core.

(There is a moment, later during the party, when Integrity quietly notifies them of the significant fluctuations in heart rate and hormone levels during that kiss, and perhaps a year ago Sokrates might have been unsettled by it, but by now they have been together long enough to understand the cadence of the Divine’s jokes.

 _Well, Integrity,_ they had said, laughing. _Love will do that to you._

If it is any comfort, Integrity had replied dryly, it has done so to Ariadne as well.)

*

And suddenly, it is nearly four years later, and Sokrates and Cass are in the palace talking politics. Technically, it’s now the official state building of the Demarchy; Sokrates had made sure to renovate whatever traces of empire they could away before they had left office.

They’re both of them lounging on a couch in Cass’ small office in the building when Cass gets the message. Sokrates watches their sibling’s face shift, and then they tilt the tablet over so Sokrates can see and—oh. _Oh._

“Oh, this is.” Cass sucks in a breath. “I’m bad at statecraft.”

Sokrates snickers and bumps their shoulder into Cass’. “Don’t sell yourself short, Cass. You really think you can’t handle it?”

“I’m less worried about handling the position,” Cass says, “and more worried about how everyone else will handle _me_ in it.”

Sokrates shrugs as Cass glances back towards the tablet, and, when they’re sure that Cass isn’t looking, they stick their tongue out at their younger sibling.

“Sokrates,” Cass says. “Put your tongue back in your mouth or I’m going to turn this state around.”

The laughter bubbles out of Sokrates first and Cass next, until the both of them are tearing up and Sokrates’ side hurts. They clutch at their ribs, leaning into their younger sibling, who never had the good grace to be shorter than them, and wipe the tears that Integrity is blessedly letting them cry.

“I love you, sibling.” They offer a weak smile.

Cass studies Sokrates for a second, and then smiles back—subtle, small, but firm, confident, assured. Sokrates wishes they could’ve watched each other become leaders.

“I love you too, Sokrates.”

Another moment of silence passes between them. Then, from Cass: “So how much do we trust the randomness of this lottery?”

Sokrates exhales—not quite a sigh. “I watched them design it. It’s—you’re qualified, Cass. The September Incident proved that.”

“It’s not that.” Cass leans back in their seat in the small Demarchy State office. “Look at the sector. Orth’s tearing up OriCon from top to bottom, Aria’s trying to run a revolution, Mako’s a super-vigilante or eight, and in the Demarchy they’re putting another Pelagios in charge?”

“The Demarchy is a state, Cass, it’s never gonna look as good as just Orth or just Mako or hell, even just Aria and a small revolutionary party.”

“Still.” Cass shrugs. “Talk about bad optics.”

Sokrates exhales, then quirks a smile. “Tell you what. When Euanthe makes it into office? Then we have a problem.”

Cass barks a laugh at that. “We’ll have to start a second revolution.”

“Eidolons, no.” Sokrates chuckles. “Are you kidding? We’ll be the entrenched leaders. Some hip young revolutionaries will be deposing _us._ ”

Cass shakes their head. The smile...withdraws, almost, from their face, but there’s still a hint of it there. “You really think I can do this, Sokrates? I wasn’t a great criminal.”

“It turns out a sense of justice doesn’t mix well with the criminal lifestyle, _Cassander._ ” They smirk as Cass lets out a bark of laughter, and then let their voice soften. “You’ll make a fantastic leader, Cass. Promise.”

They nod, slowly, and then cast a critical eye over Sokrates, who raises an eyebrow back at the Apokine-Elect.

“Sokrates,” Cass says. “Be careful with Integrity. Both kinds.”

Sokrates laughs. “Don’t worry about me, sibling,” they say, winking. “It’s gotten me this far, hasn’t it?”

Cass gives them a look, and Sokrates acquiesces, letting their expression sober.

“Integrity knows as much as I do how easy it is to misuse a Divine’s power,” they say quietly. “And we’re not like other Divine-Candidate pairs.” _Not like other Divines,_ they almost say, but Integrity reminds them how bad that would sound. “I’m in control first; I decide where and how we do what we do. Integrity is here to help me, and I’m here to help the Demarchy. I swear.”

The words hang in the air between them as there is an agonizingly long beat of silence, and then finally, finally, Cass nods slowly.

“Alright. I trust you.” And then a dry smile slips back onto Cass’s face. “It’s not like you haven’t had the chance to go tyrant.”

And Sokrates laughs, and thinks Cassander will look good in the Demarchy’s formal wear.

*

They cry at the ceremony; they can’t help themselves. Ariadne’s hand is in theirs, and their spouse squeezes tightly as tears leak from their eyes.

Each of the Demarchy’s Ministers are there, and it is the Apote, the Minister of Instruction, who presents Cassander with the wreath. Sokrates thinks they are going to bubble over with pride, as Cass, calm and resolute, takes it and places it upon their own head (leadership is a burden you accept in the Demarchy, not one that is granted to you.)

And they turn to the massed crowd, and they smile, and the crowd is already vibrant with sound, but they are roaring with applause now, shouts and cheers and sashes and flags tossed in the air, and Sokrates wonders about some of the more nationalist paraphernalia that will make its way to the ceremony but that is a problem for another time because Cassander Timaeus Berenice, because their little sibling Cass, is the Apokine of _their_ Golden Branch Demarchy, is ready to guide not the terrible empire of their parent but the nation they built to give voice to the most important thing in the Golden Branch: its people.

And maybe some part of them is just damn proud to see Cass get the recognition they deserve.

They look up at Ariadne, and smile, fully crying now, and Ariadne smiles down at them, gentle and kind, and leans down for a kiss, and Eidolons, Sokrates might well be the happiest person alive. They can feel Integrity humming within them, quiet but warm, and Sokrates opens their channel and lets the Divine bathe in its Candidate’s glee.

It will not always be this simple. Soon there will be politics both internal and external, and a ball, and a golden orb, and then Ibex, and then Rigor, and Sokrates and Integrity will pour as much of their selves into the safety of Golden Branch as they possibly can.

But now, here, with Ariadne at their side and Cassander at the head of the platform, with the Demarchy taking shape as the prosperous safe haven they built it to be, there is peace for Sokrates Nikon Artemisios and Integrity, and perhaps as well there is that most valuable of resources in the Golden Branch Star Sector or anywhere else: pure, simple, joy.

**Author's Note:**

> integrity's real messed up and weird! i really like it, it's one of my favorite divines.
> 
> many thanks to everyone in the writechat who encouraged me whenever they saw snippets and to finn, who left like a ton of comments on it one time when i asked and inspired me to finish up a bunch more of it. i love y'all a whole lot <3


End file.
